Prejudice
by Ria
Summary: When several of the Slytherins refuse to obey Voldemort and look to Snape as their leader, they know things will be difficult. But with the remaining prejudice of their classmates, it seems they shouldn’t have bothered. But whoever heard of a Slytheri


**Title:** Prejudice   
_Written for the Slytherin Fuh-Q Fest_   
**Author:** Ria (ria_ruby@yahoo.com)   
**Pairing(s):** Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Harry/Snape, Harry/Draco (vaguely)   
**Challenges:** _5. Slytherin House has done its part helping in the fight against Voldemort, even if it wasn't obvious. They suffered the most losses and had the least to gain. When they are excluded from the post-war celebrations, what happens?   
7. When push comes to shove and Voldemort looks to his expected support from within Slytherin House, what happens when he finds it lacking?   
82. What happens to the Slytherins that try to reject the mould?_   
**Rating:** R   
**Warnings:** Slash, violence (torture)   
**Disclaimer:** It's not mine. Trust me, it's not.   
**Summary:** When several of the Slytherins refuse to obey Voldemort and look to Snape as their leader, they know things will be difficult. But with the remaining prejudice of their classmates, it seems they shouldn't have bothered. But whoever heard of a Slytherin giving up? Draco Malfoy sure as hell isn't.   
**Author's Notes:** To be honest, I can't really think of anything! Um, enjoy? Oh, wait, huge thanks to Vinagrette, who made sure I didn't goof up anywhere. *hugs*   
**UK Terminology:** _Dettol_ — an antiseptic disinfectant used in Ireland and the UK. Golden-brown in colour, it clouds when added to water. Yes, I speak from experience. 

**Prejudice**

"He ordered me tonight to prepare you all." 

Draco almost _felt_ himself go pale, as the full meaning of Snape's words hit him. The urge to gape at his Head of House was strong, but he suppressed it. Malfoys didn't gape at people — more specifically, Draco Malfoy didn't gape at people. However, it was becoming apparent that he wasn't much of a Malfoy anymore. 

At last he tightened his grip on his emotions, making sure his face was schooled into its usual blank expression. "Prepare us in exactly what way, sir?" Only the whitening of his knuckles betrayed the unease he felt. If anything, Draco definitely knew how to pretend he was all right when he wasn't. 

Severus watched him with an expression as careful as Draco's. "He's decided to inform you of his upcoming plans. I'm to advise you to keep a close eye on your fellow classmates, particularly Potter. You are to pledge your loyalty to him and be ready to show your support for him when the time comes." His voice was emotionless, giving no hint to his feelings, as he watched Draco and waited for his reaction. 

Draco felt icy fear trickle down his spine when he heard Snape's last sentence. Pledge their loyalty? What precisely did that mean? Were they to take the Dark Mark? If that was to happen, then things would become far too dangerous to guarantee they would even live through this. 

To an ignorant observer, it would seem Draco didn't give a damn that Voldemort was preparing to strike. Neither did it appear to bother him that he and several other Slytherins would be dragged into it as well, even though they held no loyalty to the Dark Lord. But Severus Snape was no ignorant observer; he'd been a presence in Draco's life for as long as he could remember. He saw the blond's hands clench tighter and a flicker of panic glimmer in Draco's eyes for a moment, before it died. These minute actions said more than any words could. 

Severus thought carefully before he spoke. He knew better than to remark on Draco's fear, or even to admit he was terrified himself. It would do no good. Despite Draco abandoning his family's values and beliefs, he still acted like them, even if he didn't realise it. He had a Malfoy's pride that meant he would never admit to experiencing fear under any circumstances. And Lucius had raised him to be unflinching, calculating and emotionally cold when the situation called for it. Admitting his fear would only cause Draco's respect for him to plummet. No, he had to do this another way. 

"The Dark Lord won't be... pleased when he finds several of you have given me your support," Severus began slowly, trying to think like Draco, trying to figure out what his reaction to this would be. "Things have been bearable so far, with you being double agents and telling me what you find out, but that time is gone. And Voldemort doesn't take betrayal well." 

Draco nodded. "We know. You told us the risks at the beginning and constantly remind us of them," he pointed out. "It's not like we don't know what we're doing." He hesitated, and then went on. "He'll use torture, won't he?" 

"Partly," Severus said quietly, his expression deadly serious. Draco didn't need to be told this was no laughing matter. "He'll most likely use the Cruciatus Curse — it's a favourite of his. But he'll combine it with several other curses. He'll torture you, but might add a spell that will mean your blood won't clot. You'll be steadily bleeding to death, but he'll ensure you won't die. Not until he's ready for you to die." He closed his eyes for a moment, memory engulfing him before he could help it. Yes, Voldemort had got torture down to a delicate art. 

He'd paid a dear price to get back into Voldemort's good graces, convincing him that he hadn't really abandoned him, that he was still loyal. He'd told him that he was just fooling Dumbledore, the old codger. Voldemort had said he believed him in front of the others, but they'd both known this wasn't true. And he'd paid for temporarily deserting him. Severus shuddered. He'd genuinely thought he wouldn't survive the torture. Dumbledore and Poppy had spent a weekend nursing him back to consciousness before the true healing process could even begin. Voldemort had never trusted him again, but somehow he was still alive... if the daily torment and fear he lived in could be called life. 

Panic shot through Draco in an instant as he heard this. It was a struggle to keep his face neutral, but he somehow managed it. Barely. "I understand," he said slowly, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. The expression on the professor's face implied that Snape knew exactly what he was talking about. He'd experienced it himself and it hadn't been pretty. 

"But do the rest of the Slytherins who follow you?" Snape asked, pinning Draco to his seat with a piercing glance. For a man who had dark eyes, his gaze could be damn _bright_ at times. Draco personally thought he'd spent far too long around Dumbledore; some of his habits were starting to rub off onto him. 

"They will," Draco promised, his expression grim. "I'll tell them. And they don't follow me, sir. They follow _you_." 

Snape raised an eyebrow. "If you say so." He looked and sounded beguiled. Draco deliberately ignored him, much to his Head of House's amusement. Draco was good at ignoring what he didn't want to see when he really put his mind to it. It wasn't often, however, since Lucius had seen to it that his son would face almost anything without flinching. 

Whatever Draco thought about his leadership skills, Severus saw it differently. While he was the Head of Slytherin, Draco was its unofficial ruler. The students looked to him for guidance and the 'right thing to do'. Draco was the one to set trends. What he did, more often than not the students ended up copying him. He was the Slytherin they all wanted to be: proud, unflinching, loyal to his House. Severus knew his House was thought to have many unfavourable qualities, but they had one thing in abundance that the other Houses lacked: loyalty. The Slytherins knew House loyalty more than any of the other three, because they were usually the downtrodden ones that everyone else turned against. That had certainly been the case in recent years. 

Severus knew the whispers that crept around the school: all the Slytherins were in favour of Voldemort; they were all Death Eaters; they wanted to kill all the Muggle-borns. It never ceased to amaze him how prejudice could run rampant through one building. Everyone loved to point out how the Slytherins were biased... but no one thought to think it of themselves. Of the four Houses, he could safely say Slytherin was the one that had always been left friendless when push came to shove. 

In the past two years, Draco had shown more maturity and fierce loyalty to his House-mates than Severus had thought him capable of. When two Ravenclaws had been shoving around a First Year Slytherin, Draco had been there to help her get away, and had given the two Third Years a scathing lecture. Severus had never been more glad that he'd convinced Dumbledore to make Draco a prefect. 

When a Slytherin was badly beaten up in the run-up to a Gryffindor/Slytherin match and Draco had stumbled across it, he'd coolly taken off points from Gryffindor. Perhaps not the wisest thing to do, but it got the point across. Of course, Draco had also had to put up with the fury of a certain Harry Potter, but he hadn't seemed to care, not even when Harry had subsequently thrashed him in the match. He'd taken it with a maturity Severus had never seen from him before. 

Draco Malfoy had started to grow up. 

Severus never found out what had caused this change, and knew better than to ask, but he strongly suspected Draco had begun to see Voldemort's true, less flattering colours. And when Draco made up his mind about something, nothing anyone said, not even his parents, could make him change it. When he realised Voldemort was well and truly a madman, nothing Lucius said could make him change it. But even Severus hadn't been prepared for the extent Draco would go to show his new-found decisions. 

He had been astonished when Draco had shown up outside his office, asking to come inside. Severus had been even more alarmed when he'd announced that he and several other Slytherins wanted to help him in the fight against Voldemort. Draco had never told him how he'd come to know Severus was a double agent, though he suspected the blond had known for some time. 

They'd never actually given Dumbledore their support — it had been to him they'd shown their loyalty. That hadn't surprised Severus. It was to Slytherin they were loyal, and they had plenty of reason to distrust the often-biased headmaster. So it was to Severus they told whatever they found out, who passed it on to Dumbledore. From the headmaster's point of view, it wasn't the most ideal of situations, but Severus couldn't fault it. It worked, and that was what mattered. 

He doubted the loyalty of some of the other Slytherins, suspecting they were only following Draco because that was what they were accustomed to. Crabbe and Goyle came to mind, but Severus knew they would stay with their decision now, as they were unfailingly loyal to Draco. The strength of their loyalty was rather alarming, in all truth. They weren't the most quick-minded of people, and their marks were abysmal, but what they lacked in intellect skills, they more than made up in other, less recognised abilities. 

But others were in this situation because they actually believed in it. Pansy and Blaise were such examples of this. Blaise had been the first convert, as Severus had expected. Pansy had taken longer, not as willing to completely abandon the beliefs of her family (and possibly afraid of the consequences if she did), but a newspaper article had told of how Voldemort had destroyed a church and burnt over a hundred woman and children in it. That had been the sixth time, and enough had been enough for Pansy. That night she had come to him with Draco, her face pale but determined. 

With Pansy on his side, Draco had played his trump card well. Gradually other Slytherins had drifted over to his side; the ones that didn't want to fight, that had no loyalty to Voldemort, that were sick of the prejudice against them. They had to be careful, since there were still many Slytherins loyal to Voldemort who wouldn't hesitate to give them over to him. Draco still had to act like the spoiled brat of Lucius Malfoy, so they wouldn't suspect anything had changed. The Slytherins had looked to Draco for guidance, and in turn Draco had looked to his Head of House for it. 

Severus sat there and watched Draco. His hands were clasped tightly and there was a steely glint in his grey eyes, and Severus realised that if Draco survived the war, he would be a great leader one day. The realisation sort of stunned him. 

_Ah, Lucius,_ he thought sadly, _if only you'd seen the great qualities your son possesses when you had the chance. Perhaps you would have tried harder and he wouldn't have abandoned you. But you didn't, while I did, and now Draco listens to me instead of you. Tell me: who has come out better?_

He would never answer. 

"What about the Dark Mark?" Draco asked suddenly, meeting Snape's eyes squarely. "Does that come under 'pledging our loyalty'?" He had managed to talk to his father about what had happened when Voldemort had put the Dark Mark on him, and what he'd been told hadn't been reassuring. And if the fact that a shadow passed over Snape's face every time the Dark Mark was mentioned was any indicator, his father hadn't been sparing his feelings. Draco sincerely doubted some of the Slytherins would live having the Mark placed on them, and even if they did, it seemed unlikely their minds would survive it anyway. 

Snape shook his head. "Not for any of you. Voldemort doesn't like any teenagers having the Mark put on them, even if they are truly loyal. He's finally learned from some of his past mistakes." His face was grim as he spoke, and his tone was flat. 

"Those that came before didn't survive," Draco stated, his voice carefully neutral. He couldn't admit to the uneasy stirrings in his stomach. He couldn't. 

"Most didn't. A few did, but they were driven insane. I was one of the few from my group that did," Snape replied absently, as if he wasn't thinking about what he was saying. Draco suspected he was remembering having his Mark placed on him. That would explain the desperate look in his eyes. 

He took a deep breath, inwardly calming himself down. He felt dim panic at the thought of Snape acting so... terrified, but he refused to allow it to concern him. He'd learned early that adults weren't always strong and able to make everything all right. In the end, he could only depend on himself. That was the way things always were. 

Draco stood up. "I'll go then, sir. The other Seventh Years will need to know about this." He wasn't relishing the prospect of having to tell them, but he had no other choice. He'd technically dragged them into this, so now he had to pay the price. They'd be relieved over not having to take the Dark Mark, however; he knew that had been the chief worry of many of them. 

Snape nodded. "If you need to know anything else, come to me and I'll try and give you the answers." Draco nodded and walked to the door, reaching to open it. Snape spoke again just as his fingers touched the cool wood. 

"And Draco...?" Snape hesitated, causing Draco to frown and turn back to face him. At last, the Potions Master spoke. "Be careful." 

Draco didn't reply. He turned and pulled the door open, leaving silently. 

~*~

The moment he returned from Snape's office, Draco called together the Seventh Year Slytherins loyal to him. They had to be careful not to make anyone suspicious, but as Seventh Years they had slightly more authority than others, and people tended to question them less. But when it came to Voldemort, Year rank meant nothing. 

They took the news about as well as could be expected: Pansy gasped softly, her eyes widening; Blaise went pale. Even Crabbe and Goyle looked worried, while Millicent pressed her lips together tightly. None of them had expected things to happen this fast, and Draco couldn't help but feel like he'd let them all down by not informing them that this could happen. Not that he'd ever tell them such, of course, but guilt wasn't the nicest thing to have. 

Pansy was the first to break the silence that descended upon them after Draco had finished speaking. "Well, this complicates things," she sighed, and once again Draco wondered if she was really on his side. Pansy took her family values seriously; she had not been easy to persuade. 

"True," Draco replied slowly, thinking as he went along, "but we still have some time. The Dark Lord" — Blaise was the only one who didn't flinch when he said 'Voldemort' — "is only letting us in on his upcoming plans, and getting us to watch Potter. We don't actually have to _do_ anything yet." 

"That's the whole point!" Pansy argued. "We're going to have to do something eventually! And when we refuse to do it, the Dark Lord's going to know we aren't loyal!" 

Well, _obviously_, Draco wanted to say, but somehow managed to hold his tongue. As if sensing his thoughts, Blaise placed a hand on his arm in a silent warning for him to keep calm. Nevertheless, there was a trickle of tension in Draco's back despite his annoyance. It wasn't her words that made Draco suspicious as much as her tone. To his ears she sounded desperate, and that didn't bond well with the stand she was supposed to have taken on things. 

It was at that moment Draco realised he couldn't trust Pansy. 

"That's why we have to be careful," he said quietly, his face serious. All eyes turned to face him, as they always did. "We don't have to take the Dark Mark, at least, but he will torture us and combine spells to make the overall effect more painful." 

"So there's no way to stop it?" Pansy whispered. 

Draco shook his head. "But you knew that already," he reminded her. His eyes dared her to argue with him. She didn't. 

He sighed. "This is getting us nowhere. I only called us together because Snape wanted me to tell you all immediately. We might as well stop tonight. There's nothing else we can do, for now." 

"There's _never_ anything we can do," Pansy replied tightly. Draco turned to look at her, but she met his eyes defiantly, a determined lift to her chin. Her very expression caused alarm bells to start ringing in his head. 

He said nothing else and they all left, save for Blaise, who sat down behind him and wrapped his arms around him. Leaning his forehead against Draco's hair, he whispered, "How bad are things?" 

Draco sighed. "They could be worse, but as it is they're not looking too good. Voldemort's preparing for war and he expects all of us to be behind him, as our parents are. When he finds out we aren't... he's not going to be pleased." That was an understatement. 

Blaise made a small sound in the back of his throat, and tightened his hold on him. Draco knew it wasn't the thought of what Voldemort would do to him that caused his reaction, rather, it was the thought of what Blaise's own family would do to him. Blaise had been brought up constantly reminded of what had happened to his ancestors who had defied the family. If anything, Blaise's family would punish him more severely than Voldemort would. 

"I won't let them hurt you," Draco said, turning to face him. He glared into blue-grey eyes. "I _won't_. You know that." 

Blaise smiled sardonically. "You know they'll do it anyway, but I appreciate the sentiment." Draco sighed, and Blaise leaned in to kiss him gently, leaning his forehead against Draco's. "We'll survive. We're Slytherins... we're supposed to have an instinct for survival." 

Draco smiled bitterly. "Does that instinct still count against other Slytherins? Does it even work?" 

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" came the tart reply. "I'm only trying to cheer you up, and it's obviously not working since you're still feeling sorry for yourself. Now, are you going to grow up or shall I just hit you?" 

Draco's smile was genuine this time. "This from the guy who has waist-length hair," he drawled. 

Blaise snorted, swinging his auburn braid from side to side. "It's a statement, even if it does take practically all day to wash and dry," he said indignantly. 

"And it pisses off your father," Draco added. 

"That too." Blaise sighed and kissed him gently on the forehead. "We'll survive. We always do." 

Draco shook his head. "We've only been lucky." 

"Sometimes luck is underestimated," Blaise returned quietly. 

Draco shook his head. He couldn't believe him. He knew Voldemort (or assumed he knew him) far too well. He never took rejection well, particularly when it was from his own followers. Of course, it had been taken for granted that they would follow their parents. No one had ever thought to imagine they mightn't automatically follow Voldemort. 

Blaise lay back on Draco's bed and tugged the blond down with him. Even if someone came in they wouldn't be shocked; everyone was used to the two of them being alone in rooms, despite the fact many didn't approve. They knew better than to protest, however; Draco was Head Boy and Quidditch Captain, and his father held a place in Voldemort's Inner Circle. On these facts alone, Draco was someone to be left well alone. If only they knew what he was planning to do. 

They lay there in silence for several minutes, simply enjoying being together. Finally, Blaise broke the silence. "Why aren't we being given the Dark Mark, anyway? I didn't want to ask in front of everyone else, in case they couldn't cope with the answer." Like Draco, Blaise was deeply suspicious of the others and rarely trusted them with anything important, though he never acted so publicly. 

Draco paused for a moment, and then decided Blaise would be able to take the honest answer. "Teenagers rarely survive it. Voldemort learned that if he wanted his followers to live until adulthood, they couldn't be given the Mark until they _were_ adults." He remembered the desperate look in Snape's eyes as he had relived having the Mark put on him. 

"Lovely," Blaise replied dryly. "I'm assuming he only learned after numerous mistakes." While knowing how dangerous and powerful Voldemort was, Blaise had a very low opinion of him. But Draco knew that if he ever actually came face-to-face with him, Blaise would most likely be terrified. 

"Probably," Draco replied quietly. The solemn note in his voice made Blaise pay sharper attention to him. After a few moments, Draco asked, "Are you nervous?" 

"Actually, I'm terrified," Blaise answered flatly. "You?" 

"About the same." Suddenly, Draco rolled onto Blaise and kissed him hard. Blaise responded, trying to ignore the desperation he could sense in Draco's actions, and the fear he could see in his eyes. 

~*~

Draco knew something was wrong the moment he felt someone shaking him awake. Blinking blearily in the sudden light, he found himself focusing on a worried Pansy. "What's wrong?" he muttered, blinking furiously to wake himself up. Then he remembered. Tonight had been Blaise's meeting with Voldemort. If Pansy was waking him up... "How bad is he?" he demanded, his stomach suddenly clenching. 

Even in the candlelight Pansy was pale. "It's bad," she whispered. "Oh, God, Draco, it's terrible. He won't let us do anything until you're with him." 

Draco fought to keep his face impassive, even as a voice started screaming in his head. Screaming and screaming. "Where is he?" he asked, and was amazed at how normal he managed to sound. He was getting better at hiding what he really felt. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not. It definitely kept him from going completely bonkers, though. 

"Hospital Wing." Pansy had barely finished speaking and Draco was already off the bed, dashing down the hall. She ran after him, hardly knowing what else to do. 

Draco found himself cursing his stupidity as he ran through the halls. He should have known better than to hope things would go all right. Or he should have gone with Blaise, at the very least. But Voldemort hadn't allowed it, and he'd known better than to press the issue. Instead, he'd found himself pacing back and forth in his room until all hours, eventually falling on top of his bed still in his robes. He didn't remember dozing off, though he obviously had. It didn't make him feel any better. 

The moment Draco stepped into the Hospital Wing, he knew things had gone terribly, terribly wrong. His mind refused to see what was in front of him at first, simply unable to accept it. Then Draco forcibly pulled himself together and made himself start walking. 

"Blaise?" he whispered. causing Snape and Madam Pomfrey to turn and look at him. 

Madam Pomfrey glared furiously at him, not liking the disturbance Draco was causing, but Snape shook his head. "Leave him be, Poppy," he told her quietly. She pressed her lips together, but said nothing else. Draco realised vaguely that she had obviously been filled in on what they were doing, since Blaise's... injuries were rather hard to shrug off. But he barely thought about it for more than a moment, before he shoved it to the back of his mind. It wasn't important right now. 

Draco slowly approached the bed Blaise lay on, feeling Snape watch him. Every second seemed to drag like an hour, like everything was in slow-motion. He found himself swallowing repeatedly, and hated himself for it. He should have gone with Blaise and protected him, like he'd promised him he would. He'd been a fool, a complete fool. He'd failed Blaise, utterly failed him. 

Reaching the bed, Draco stopped, staring down at the unconscious teenager below him. Words wouldn't come. He didn't know what to say; there was nothing he _could_ say. Hesitating slightly, he reached down and trailed his fingers down the side of Blaise's face, trying his hardest not to look at the wounds. But it was like trying not to see a spot of blood on pure, white snow — the brightness of it made one want to look and look. Blaise's face, starkly pale, was like that, and the lesions were eyesores, but he couldn't look away. 

"Will he be all right?" he asked, hardly able to recognise his own voice, it was so cold and distant. Almost emotionless. A good mask for the hysterical emotion inside him that was fighting to be let out. "There's no... permanent damage?" 

Snape shook his head. "None, but he's been badly injured..." Draco knew immediately it was going to be further bad news, if that was even possible. "We can't heal them. Voldemort" — Madam Pomfrey flinched, but they ignored her — "seems to have put a Blocking Spell on him, one we can't break." 

"We'll break it," Draco said flatly. "We'll find a way." He refused to think any other way. There was no _point_ in thinking any other way. Blaise's life depended on him being strong. Unhealed wounds meant death. 

"You have to clean out the wounds," a new voice spoke up. They turned to find Harry Potter standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. His green eyes watched them with his familiar determined expression. Draco glared before he could help it, more out of habit than anything else. While he was now on the 'good' side, technically, that didn't mean his feelings for Potter had changed. He still thought Potter was an idiotic Gryffindor who constantly bent the rules to suit himself, no matter the risks or consequences, and who was never punished for it. 

"Potter!" Snape hissed, giving him a look that would have sent Draco running. Potter only raised an eyebrow. "I thought I told you to stay behind!" Draco briefly wondered what Potter could have done to be given detention at this hour. 

Harry merely looked calmly at Snape. "But it seems I was right to come." Without another word, he brushed past Snape and walked over to the bed. Standing on the other side he met Draco's hostile gaze. "He'll be all right," Potter assured him, looking terribly earnest. From that moment, Draco couldn't get rid of the sinking feeling in his stomach. 

"How do you know what to do?" he challenged Potter, unwilling to trust the Gryffindor with something this important to him. Having Potter actually know how important Blaise was to him was irrelevant; he considered blackmail well under him. 

Potter met his gaze calmly. "I've seen it before. When people injured like this come in, everyone automatically begins to frantically heal them. No one does it the Muggle way, actually cleaning out the wounds by hand, and that's what Voldemort wants." Madam Pomfrey looked dismayed at the repeated mention of You-Know-Who's true name, but no one paid her the slightest bit of attention. 

"So by cleaning them out, we'll be able to heal them," Draco said, still looking suspicious. Potter nodded. Draco turned to Snape, who sighed, grudgingly giving Harry a look of respect. 

"It sounds plausible, and certainly sounds like something Voldemort would find amusing," Snape agreed, not looking any way happy. "Poppy, hot water, cloths and Dettol, if you please." Madam Pomfrey looked perplexed at the thought of using Muggle disinfectant for such serious injuries, but didn't argue. 

Draco went back to watching over Blaise, absently brushing back a lock of auburn hair that trailed across his cheek. He looked up to find Harry watching him, a faint smile ghosting over his lips. He glared. "What's so funny?" 

"You really care about him," Harry replied quietly, glancing away for a brief moment. Draco followed his gaze and realised he was looking at Snape, who had locked gazes with him. Draco frowned, but said nothing... for the time being. 

Madam Pomfrey returned with a pan of steaming water, cloths and a plastic bottle of Dettol. Draco watched her pour in the correct amount of golden-brown liquid into the water, wrinkling his nose as the sickly, painfully-sharp smell tainted the air. The only reason they had it was for any First Year who balked at the thought of being magically healed when they first came here, though they were few and far between. Compare a stinging disinfectant to a spell that could heal something instantly, and the Dettol was promptly forgotten. But under the current circumstances, Draco had never been so glad to see it. 

Harry took a cloth and dipped it into the clouded water, wringing the cloth before slowly pressing it an arm wound. Blaise was unconscious, so Draco knew he was immune to the pain, thankfully. He watched as Harry cleaned the wound thoroughly, before motioning Snape over. To Draco's relief, the wound immediately healed. It seemed Potter had been right, after all. However, he tried to ignore the fact that when Harry cleaned the cloth, the water had faint streaks of scarlet in it. Didn't need to see that. 

They worked quickly after that, cleaning and healing the wounds, until Blaise looked completely normal again, but Draco knew better. The moment Blaise would open his eyes, it'd be obvious. Lying with one's eyes was difficult to do. Draco could only do it when the moment really called for it, and even then it was hard to pull off. After being tortured, Blaise's eyes would practically be like open books. 

"All right," Madam Pomfrey said briskly, attempting to regain control of a situation that had rapidly spun out of her grasp. "He needs sleep, and lots of it." 

"I'm not leaving him alone," Draco said immediately, tensing at the very thought. "I'm _not_." His expression dared her to say otherwise. 

She opened her mouth, most likely to tell him that he wasn't staying under any circumstances, when Snape shook his head. "Let him stay, Poppy." When she looked at him in outrage, he added, "Remember what the Headmaster told us." 

Madam Pomfrey sighed and shook her head, before turning away from them. "He'll need fresh linen, then." 

Harry opened his mouth, but Snape cut him off before he could even draw breath. "Goodbye, Mr. Potter," he said firmly, jerking his head towards the door. When Harry frowned, ready to argue, he snapped, "Now, if you please." Quieter, he murmured, "There's nothing more you can do." Giving Blaise one last glance, Harry turned and left. 

Snape turned to Draco, who immediately spoke. "I know: it's my fault." His hands tightened into fists as he stared down at Blaise. After all his promises, he had let him get hurt. He had failed him. Draco gritted his teeth. "My fault." 

He looked up when he felt Snape lay a hand on his shoulder. "How exactly could you have guessed what would happen?" the Potions Master asked him, his dark eyes piercing. 

Draco laughed bitterly. "Of _course_ I knew something like this would happen! I knew, and I let him go anyway, unprotected. You know what Blaise is like when it comes to punishment." He shook his head. "I promised I wouldn't let him get hurt, and look what happens. I failed him." _I failed him._ The words danced gleefully inside his head, taunting him. 

Snape was quiet for a moment, but then he said, "You can't protect him all the time, Draco. You can't protect any of them all the time." The way he said it implied he felt partly responsible for this as well. hey followed him, after all, not Dumbledore. His words made Draco think of Pansy and he looked around, but she was already gone. Her quick departure made Draco feel uneasy, and he had a horrible feeling he knew why. 

"You'd better go to bed yourself, sir," he told Snape, blatantly changing the subject and not caring. "We all need sleep." At Snape's hesitation, he added, "We'll be fine. Honest." 

Snape regarded him for a moment, before sighing. "Very well. Goodnight, Draco" He cast one last look at Blaise, before turning and leaving the room, nodding at Madam Pomfrey as he passed her. 

"Goodnight, sir," Draco said softly, once the professor was out of earshot. He turned to watch over Blaise again, ignoring Madam Pomfrey as she dressed the bed next to him. 

~*~ 

It was the sound of quiet sobbing that woke him from his light, restless sleep. Draco listened for a moment, trying to remember where he was and why someone was crying. Then memory returned and Draco sat up slowly in bed, trying not to let Blaise know he was awake yet. 

He padded softly over to the bed. Blaise had his back turned to him, and couldn't hear his approach over the sound of his crying. The redhead froze when Draco gently touched his shoulder. 

"It's okay. It's me," Draco whispered, bending down so Blaise could hear him properly. 

"Oh." Not exactly the response he'd wanted to hear. 

"How are you feeling?" Draco asked. No "Are you all right?" because he definitely wasn't feeling all right. In his experience, the question only intended to anger people. 

"I've been better," Blaise answered after a moment. His voice sounded calm enough, but Draco saw the death-grip he had on the sheets. He swallowed, trying to think of a way to get through to Blaise, but failed. What could he say? 

"I'm sorry." It slipped from his lips before he realised it, and Draco stiffened, waiting for Blaise's response. Of all the idiotic things to say... 

"What for?" Blaise hesitated for a moment, before slowly turning to face Draco. In the moonlight that flooded in through the windows, his wide eyes were a pale grey. Draco fought the urge to squirm under their intense scrutiny. "You couldn't have stopped it. We knew what would happen." 

"I should have stopped it," Draco said sharply, his eyebrows jutting together as he frowned. "I promised I'd protect you, and look at what happened." 

To his surprise, Blaise laughed, though the sound was bitter. "I really wonder about you sometimes." Draco listened to his tone and knew things between them had changed, even if they hadn't intended them to. "You know you couldn't protect me. If you'd come with me, Voldemort would have been suspicious." Blaise shook his head in exasperation. 

"It still doesn't make it right," Draco argued, knowing he sounded stupid but unable to think of anything else to say. 

"No, it doesn't," Blaise said. "But there's nothing we could have done to stop it." His expression softened at the frustrated look on Draco's face, and he reached up to stroke his cheek. "You don't have to be sorry over something you had no control over." 

"I feel responsible," Draco snapped. "I feel as if I should have had control over it." He shook his head, wishing the action could clear his troubled, frustrated thoughts, but of course it didn't. 

Blaise sighed, before wrapping his arms around Draco's ribs and leaning his head against the blond's shoulder. Draco held him tight, wishing his embrace could make everything all right again, knowing that it was stupid to even wish something like that. Life's only pleasure was to deal you shoddy cards, and that was done continuously and with great glee. 

Draco still held Blaise when he started to cry again. 

~*~

He was watching him again. 

Severus tightened his hold on his cup, oblivious to the fact that he hadn't touched any of the liquid inside. His eyes were locked on the Gryffindor table, watching Harry Potter watch a Slytherin. 

"Toast, Severus?" 

He turned to glare at Professor Sinistra, who glared right back. Years of sitting beside him at meals had made her immune to his glares, which meant he never had a moment's peace. 

"Apparently not," she said in clipped tones, and turned away to talk with Professor Vector. Severus went back to staring. 

This was the third day, and still Harry did it. Severus absently tightened his hold on his cup, but then put it down as his fingers ached in protest. Why? What sort of fascination did Harry get from it? He followed Harry's gaze, brow rapidly furrowing. 

Draco sat at the Slytherin table, surrounded on either side. Severus thought he had never looked more alone. Whatever his number of acquaintances, Draco looked cool, calm and collected, the very epitome of an ice prince. His grey were chilled and serene, gazing around the Great Hall with the air of an indifferent monarch. 

He was still the King of Slytherin. Severus knew this in the way his court flocked around him, seeking praise or approval, both equally important. They held him as the centre of their universe, the ruler who could bring them acceptance and success, as well as despair and ruin. 

But Draco, though he was their leader, still held them at arm's length, treating them with tactful wariness rather than trust, as any proper monarch would do. Severus had never felt more proud of him. He had taught them to dance to _his_ music, taught them gently and quietly so they didn't even realise they were doing it. Draco had done well. 

There was still the reminder, that, to most of them, he would soon be seen as a traitor. Severus pressed his lips together, unaware of what his hands were even doing. It had begun with Blaise, and would end with Draco. Then all hell would break loose. 

Draco would survive, Severus was sure of it. He had the mental strength that would withstand everything Voldemort would throw against him. Even Blaise had some of this strength, though it had taken him a day to show signs of recovery. He would survive, too, but not like Draco would. 

But the other Slytherins... Severus frowned. Many of them wouldn't survive it. They hadn't the mental or physical strength; Voldemort would devour them. Some of them would rather betray Draco than go through torture — they would see it as the lesser of two evils. Pain tended to warp common sense. Severus made a mental note to ask Draco if he was prepared for this. 

His gaze drifted to Pansy. Of all the Slytherins following Draco, she had been the one most affected by what had happened to Blaise. Severus suspected she hadn't been entirely truthful to herself about what would happen to them, and Blaise was a rude wake-up call for her. She sat at Draco's left, staring at her plate without eating. The expression on her face made Severus uneasy, and he made another mental note concerning her for when he next spoke with Draco. 

Blaise's seat at Draco's right was empty, an unknown warning. To the Slytherins who had no idea what Draco was doing, Blaise was somehow sick. But the other Slytherins... the other Slytherins knew. Severus could see it in their eyes, a raw panic feebly hidden, and in their tense postures. They knew and they were afraid. 

Severus gave up on breakfast and decided to visit Blaise before his Third Year class of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Partly because he was his Head of House and partly because he had to make sure Blaise was well enough to leave the Hospital Wing later. No matter how he felt about what Voldemort had done to him, Blaise would have to act completely normal when he returned to Slytherin dungeon, so as not to cause any suspicion. 

But first... 

Severus's gaze returned to Harry, who was still staring at Draco. His eyes, the colour of Spring's first green, were thoughtful, yet sharp at the same time, regarding the blond with an expression Severus found deeply alarming. As he watched, something uncoiled from Severus's stomach and reached upward and outward, curling through his veins with dark whispers. Fire raged softly in his chest, making his breath contract. He clenched his hands into fists, gasping for air. 

He would not act like this. He _wouldn't_ act so childishly, he refused to! Severus growled softly. He was above this! His common sense told him so, but common sense often disappeared because of the wrath of far stronger emotion. He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to get himself under control again. 

When he opened them, Harry was looking straight at him, not even bothering to hide the direction of his gaze. Bottle-green eyes watched him with evident humour, and Severus immediately rose to the challenge. He glared at the Gryffindor, whose lips twitched in response. 

Well. If _that_ was how he wanted to play it... 

_Keep calm!_ he ordered himself, but it was hard when fury and jealousy flickered in his veins like sparks of fire. Jealousy, the green-eyed monster. How ironic, with the green-eyed fiend currently smiling at him. 

Determined not to lose what was left of his tattered self-control, Severus wrenched his gaze away from the House tables and went back to his own breakfast— 

Only to discover the slices of toast he'd unknowingly picked up and had very neatly and thoroughly shredded into pieces. Severus stared at his ruined plate. 

Neither he or Harry realised Draco knew they'd been watching him all along. 

~*~

Stars filled the sky like diamond chips carelessly thrown on black velvet. There was no moon, which seemed like a bad omen. Draco stared up at the sky, his hands clenched into tight fists. His stomach churned, but he pushed it down with practised ease. His instincts were screaming that something was going to go very, very wrong, but it was too late. 

"Draco." 

The aristocratic, snobbish voice put his teeth on edge, but Draco forced himself to keep calm. Pressing his fisted hands against his sides, he turned to face his father slowly, his face a polite mask. 

"Father." 

Draco felt himself being leisurely scrutinised and stayed still, keeping his face in that polite mask. His Malfoy mask. Had to act like he didn't despise his father. 

"Passable," Lucius decided, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "I had hoped for better." 

Think. Quickly. "Professor Snape kept me longer than planned," Draco lied smoothly, his face devoid of any emotion. Couldn't let his expression give him away. Using Snape as an excuse was essential, however; he knew using any other teacher would have only displeased his father, since Snape was the only teacher Lucius held any respect for. 

"Ah, Severus." Lucius smiled ruefully. "He does take education far too seriously." 

_If only you knew,_ Draco thought. When Snape had kept him behind after Potions yesterday, they'd gone through every possible situation that could arise tonight, and what Draco was and wasn't to do if they did. They also went thought what he was never, _ever_ meant to do unless things became desperate. 

They walked side-by-side towards the arranged clearing, Draco automatically matching his father's stride. He felt his stomach twist violently as he realised the clearing was encircled by ancient standing stones. Old power hummed in the air, making Draco's skin crawl. Everything had a dangerously ominous air to it. 

The Death Eaters were waiting inside the circle, their robes and masks in place. Even so, Draco was able to tell who was who by their posture. There actually weren't a lot of new members; Draco finally understood why his father had reminded him that he was extremely lucky with this opportunity. What he hadn't particularly liked was the gleam in Lucius's eyes as he'd said it. 

In the centre stood the Dark Lord. Even with a deep hood shielding his face, his crimson eyes were evident. Draco felt his chest tighten, but stayed calm. Things were going to become bad enough tonight without him making things worse. 

Lucius took his place in the circle, drawing his mask over his face. Draco continued walking until he was standing before Voldemort, and knelt down before him. His heart started to pound. 

"So, Lucius," Voldemort murmured, "you have brought your son to me at last." 

_Well, obviously,_ Draco thought, irritated, but froze as Voldemort reached down with his pale, long fingers and gently ran them through his hair. Uh oh... 

Snape had warned him about this: _"He'll use physical intimacy to unsettle you. A Lord as cruel and ruthless as he isn't supposed to know what intimacy even is, and he'll use this impression against you. And if he does use physical intimacy... start worrying."_

Draco did. No one, not even the various nannies he'd had when young, had touched his hair like this. He hadn't allowed them. The only person allowed to touch his hair was Blaise, for obvious reasons. But he couldn't exactly tell Voldemort to stop, could he? Not if he wanted to survive tonight. Of course, the chances of him surviving were slim anyway, but that was beside the point. 

The Dark Lord chuckled. "Lucius, does your son frighten easily?" 

Draco tensed. 

To keep himself from openly panicking, Draco glanced around while his father answered, his eyes still lowered. He silently counted the Death Eaters surrounding him. Ice froze the blood in his veins. One was missing. 

Sweat broke out on his forehead. His stomach was now wrenching painfully, like it wanted to rip itself apart. _Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no, no, nononononono—_ It was a silent roar in his head. Draco dimly hoped he wasn't having hysterics. 

"Lucius," Voldemort hissed, "is your son _loyal_?" He slowly, but firmly, urged Draco's face up with his hands and forced him to look up. 

Draco met those unnatural eyes for only a moment, but they told him more than he ever wanted to know. _He knows! HE KNOWS!_

Lucius's voice seemed puzzled. "Of course he is, my Lord." 

_I'm dead,_ Draco thought vaguely, digging his nails into his palms. _I'm standing on my grave._

"Are you so sure?" Voldemort's voice resembled a snake more and more as the seconds passed. 

Draco could feel hostile and uneasy eyes on him. 

"My - my Lord?" Lucius stammered. 

"He's a _spy_, Lucius!" Voldemort snapped. "And he's not the only one." Two Death Eaters broke from the circle, disappearing into the darkness. 

Draco looked up as they returned, and his heart jumped into his throat. Snape hung limply between them, unconscious. 

Lucius ripped off his mask. His eyes were wide, but the rest of his expression was twisted into fury. Draco knew then that if Voldemort didn't kill him, his father most certainly would. Betrayal simply didn't enter the mind of a Malfoy. And if it did, they died, simple as that. Draco had been taught this before he could talk. 

"Yes, it seems our dear Severus and young Draco have been against us and passing on information for some time," Voldemort said almost pleasantly. 

_Who told him?_ Draco wondered, trying to control his rising panic. Someone had definitely told him, since no matter how much he wanted to, Voldemort couldn't read minds. Then the answer hit him so suddenly, Draco cursed his stupidity. 

Pansy. Who else? It all added up, her odd behaviour, the almost hysterical fear he sensed in her. Deep down Draco had known himself, but hadn't wanted to admit it, had hoped his suspicions would be wrong. But they weren't, and now he had to deal with the consequences. 

_Voldemort didn't kill Blaise,_ Draco remembered, willing to bring any ray of light into the pressing darkness. _He tortured him — badly — but he didn't die._ Of course, Blaise had been a follower, something Draco definitely wasn't. 

He met those burning eyes one more time— 

"_Crucio_." 

—before his world simply became pain. 

His legs gave out. His hands caught him before he fell completely, but that didn't particularly concern him at the moment. Draco clenched his teeth as pain washed over him continuously. _Keep calm, keep calm,_ he thought frantically, while his common sense demanded what _point_ was there in keeping calm. What was the point of keeping calm when it felt like his body was being ripped inside out? 

He squeezed his eyes shut while he gasped, forcing his breathing to remain deep and even. Doing it to relax suddenly seemed far easier than doing it to stay sane. His arms screamed as the burning sensations streaked through muscle and bone, throbbing, throbbing, _throbbing_. Draco knew they'd give out eventually, unable to cope with the torture and still manage to keep him from collapsing. He felt his body twitch, unused to such extreme agony; no matter what others assumed, Lucius had disciplined with words and examples more than actual physical violence. 

Draco's muscles contracted, to the extent he felt like they were twisting inside him. Each spasm hurt, new pain over old with no brief moment of rest. Constant pain building over and over. How had Blaise survived this? Draco wondered, biting his lip to keep from screaming. God, he'd never think of him as weak again, never. In that moment he understood why Pansy had succumbed, why she'd betrayed him and Snape. If this had been done to her... yes, maybe he could understood. But that didn't mean he'd forgive. 

_I won't scream. I_ won't_. I can't, he'll win then,_ Draco found himself thinking over and over again. It seemed irrational and vaguely hysterical, but it helped if he focused on the words instead of the magical wringing of his body. _I won't scream. I won't scream. I won't scream. I WON'T!_

Warm wetness flowed down his arms, soaking the sleeves of his robes. The dim torch-light wasn't strong enough to show its colour, particularly not with the dark material, but Draco knew what it was. 

_"He'll most likely use the Cruciatus Curse — it's a favourite of his. But he'll combine it with several other curses. He'll torture you, but might add a spell that will mean your blood won't clot. You'll be steadily bleeding to death, but he'll ensure you won't die. Not until he's ready for you to die."_

_I still won't die,_ Draco remembered. _If Blaise didn't die, then I most certainly won't. He'll make me regret betraying him, but he doesn't want me to die, not yet. Right now... all he wants me to feel is pain. A lot of it._

But his blood was still flowing, and the pain was getting worse, and he was beginning to wonder if just succumbing to complete hysterics would stop it. He heard a strangled sob rip from his throat and bit his lip again, until it too began to bleed. _Don't scream! Don't scream!_ His arms involuntarily wrenched and he collapsed fully to the ground, dimly realising he was now writhing in a desperate attempt to cope with the raging torment. 

Then it all stopped. 

Draco's head slumped onto the grass, letting its dampness ease the hammering in his head. He blinked slowly, wishing everything would stop spinning. _Please, please let it be over._ But it wasn't, of course. 

Cool hands held either side of his face, and slowly raised his head until Draco met searing eyes that looked almost thoughtful. And... a faint hint of approval? 

"You're stronger than Lucius told me," Voldemort remarked, sounding as if he was having a normal conversation. He certainly wasn't speaking as if he was kneeling in the middle of an ancient circle, a tortured boy's face held in his hands. "Far stronger." Slender fingers absently brushed Draco's hair away from his forehead, ignoring the fact that sweat made the strands cling to his skin. 

It took him a number of tries before he could speak. "So? I'm still an enemy." 

Voldemort smiled and the action almost made Draco recoil, but he stopped himself in time. "True. Still, you would have been a valuable asset, a worthy follower. Not many can survive Cruciatus without going mad. Few survive it without even screaming." He sighed. "A pity you had to become a traitor." 

"But you're not going to kill me," Draco said, forcing himself to keep on looking into that dreadful stare. If Voldemort had wanted to kill him, he would already have done so. He liked giving traitors quick, excruciatingly painful deaths. 

"No. Not yet. But I will, when I decide to." Voldemort's fingers dug into his scalp, making Draco hiss in pain. "And when I do kill you... you will know what true pain is." He laughed briefly. "If you genuinely think Dumbledore and Harry Potter will win this war... then I do fear for you." 

He stood up in a swirl of black robes, his eyes impassive once more. "Wormtail has by now alerted Dumbledore" — he said the name like poison — "to your whereabouts, and will no doubt arrive at any moment." Voldemort continued to stare down at him, until he very slowly pointed his wand at Draco. "Until then..." 

Before darkness consumed him, the last thing Draco heard was Voldemort say, "Welcome to the war, Mr. Malfoy." 

~*~

The sky had been crimson for days, frozen into an everlasting tableau of sunset. All sense of day and night had long been lost. Draco stared up at it, not realising the streaks of yellow, red and orange were reflected in his eyes. In the windows to his soul the only thing visible was hell. 

In the months following the official declaration of war, Draco's life faded to a mere shadow of what it had been. Everything he had taken for granted... only now was he realising how precious it was. How could life change so quickly in only a matter of months? 

It took him a month to recover from Voldemort's torture, a month for his body and mind to heal enough even to function. When he returned, the war was well underway and he wasn't properly healed. But he still joined the fighting. 

When he realised Blaise wasn't there, he went to join Harry Potter. That had hurt, but the hurt had turned to worry when he'd realised no one knew where Blaise _was_. It was impossible to keep track of everyone, after all, and Blaise was only one person in a very large war. 

He and Harry spent months trailing all over the country, disposing of Voldemort's most important spies, but not necessarily the most dangerous. Draco watched Harry kill Wormtail, and said nothing about the ruthlessness that temporarily possessed him and the savage light that appeared in Harry's eyes. Only later was Draco told that Wormtail had been the Potters' betrayer, the cause of their deaths. 

They were still whittling down the spies, even if it was only a bare stroke on the larger picture. They kept their eye on information, trying to keep tabs on Voldemort and secure his position. But Voldemort had learned from his former mistakes, and securing his position was as successful as keeping sand from falling through their fingers. 

But their vague reports were slowly narrowing to a certain location, and their noose around Voldemort was slowly tightening. And soon it would choke. 

"Hey, Malfoy." 

He turned to find Harry walking towards him, his shoulders tense and his expression weary. In that moment, he looked older and more exhausted than Draco had ever seen him. He didn't know if this was a good or bad thing. As a hint, it wasn't very optimistic. 

"Potter," he returned. The two of them were still too uncomfortable to go on first-name basis, even with all they had seen and weathered together. But their reluctance was understandable. 

"I found a place," Harry said, rubbing his face, seeming irritated by his stubble. It was impossible to ignore the dark circles under his eyes and the faint lines on his face. "It looks like it was abandoned for ages, so we should be okay, but—" 

"Better paranoid than dead," Draco drawled, wondering it he could make Harry laugh, or even smile. He had been taking all of this far harder than he'd expected, and Draco didn't want to admit it, but he was beginning to worry. Harry was important to the war; it wouldn't do anyone, especially Harry, any good if he sank into depression. 

A ghost of a smile darted over thin lips, but never reached green eyes. "Whatever. Come on." Harry turned without another word, and Draco had no choice but to follow. 

Harry's chosen location was an old stone house in a forgotten corner of the woods. Well, Harry called it a house — Draco took one look and declared it a hut. But one had to be satisfied with what one got. Draco knew this, so he grudgingly helped Harry plaster the areas with wards and protection spells. The place had been abandoned for years, but they were being hunted as they were hunting: they couldn't be too careful. 

Once they were sufficiently secure, Draco acted upon some of the worry that had been gnawing on him for days. He insisted Harry lie down and eat the larger portion of the day's ration. When Harry protested, Draco ignored him with all of his seventeen (almost eighteen) years of practise. No one could deliberately ignore like a Malfoy could. Besides, Harry was now on the verge of looking dangerously unhealthy, and Draco knew if he let this continue, several people would be out for his blood. 

They didn't begin a fire, instead placing Warming Spells on their cloaks and clothing. The continued use of magic was draining them, but there was always a chance someone might see the smoke from the fire and find them. Neither of them wanted to use even more energy to conjure a magical fire. As they lay down on the floor, wrapping their cloaks around them, Draco realised the trees were so close together that they managed to block out the burning sky. This was oddly comforting. 

Neither of them said anything for a while, instead taking advantage of the first calm night they'd had in a long time. For once, they seemed ahead of the Death Eaters after them. Draco was gradually dozing off when Harry spoke, breaking the peaceful silence that had gathered around them. 

"We'd better report to Dumbledore in a few days. He'll start wondering if we're dead, or something." 

Draco sighed, wishing Harry could just let him sleep. "If we were, Voldemort would have rubbed his nose in it. 'Sides, you're the one who does the reporting. I stand nearby only to prove you haven't killed me in an impromptu fit of rage. He doesn't trust me." 

"Well, you don't trust him, either, so how do you expect him to trust you at all?" Harry asked, sounding amused. "You get what you give." 

"You'd make a great philosopher, Potter," Draco said sourly. "Now shut up and let me sleep. You're fully allowed to stay awake and talk to yourself for the night, but I intend to get a decent night's rest for once." 

"I have 'Dreamless Sleep' if you need it," Harry murmured quietly. 

Draco stiffened. "We'll see." 

"Sorry." 

"It doesn't matter." 

They lapsed into silence again. Only the sound of Harry's breathing told Draco that he still wasn't asleep yet. It irked him; Harry really did need sleep, more so than he himself did. But he had to act the stubborn hero... again. 

Bloody idiot. 

"All right then, you're not fully allowed to stay awake and talk to yourself for the night," Draco sighed, rubbing his hand across his eyes. "Honestly, Potter." 

"I wasn't making noise," Harry said, sounding surprised. "And I don't talk to myself." 

"Sure you don't. Anyway, I could hear you breathe." 

A pause. 

"Now who's being ridiculous, Malfoy?" 

"Shut up, Potter." 

Harry laughed, rolling onto his side. After a few moments of silence, yet again, Harry murmured, "Can I ask you something?" 

"Shoot," Draco drawled lazily, comfortably aware that he was close to dozing off. Harry would definitely stop talking once he realised he was asleep. Or at least, he _hoped_ he would. 

"Do you miss Blaise?" 

Of any question Harry could have asked, this was the absolutely last one Draco would have expected. He shot up to a sitting position, turning to gape at Harry, who looked astonished at Draco's reaction. "Potter, what sort of question is that?" 

Harry blinked. "A rather valid one, or so I thought until three seconds ago." 

"You don't ask people about that sort of thing!" Draco sputtered, wondering if Harry had well and truly cracked up. In an effort to see if this was so, he lit his wand and glared at him furiously. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You've asked me far more personal questions, Malfoy, and not half as subtly as you like to think. I think I'm well within my rights to ask what I just did. So, do you miss him?" 

"What do you _think_, Potter?" Draco nearly howled, before remembering where they were. Yelling wasn't a particularly smart thing to do. 

Harry looked like he was going to crack up at any moment. "Well, then. Goodnight, Malfoy." He turned to go to sleep, before Draco grabbed his arm. "What?" he asked, blinking. 

"I don't think you asked do I miss Blaise just because you were curious," Draco said, glaring at him. 

"Actually, I did," Harry said, looking rather alarmed. "Calm _down_, Malfoy." Draco wrenched his hand away from Harry, grinding his teeth furiously. Harry stared at him for a few seconds, before saying cautiously, "Blaise is your weak point, isn't he?" 

Draco nodded tensely, his jaw almost aching. Blaise was far more than just his weak point; he was the centre that held everything together. Theirs had never been a relationship of passion or anything like that — more often than not they acted like they were only having a casual fling for sex and nothing else, but that was to ensure Voldemort never found out the truth. There were plenty of students in Hogwarts on his side, and not all of them were in Slytherin. And if Voldemort ever found out how important Blaise was to him... 

Draco shuddered. All he'd have to do was threaten Blaise, and Draco would do anything. Then he looked at Harry, who was still watching, and thought again. Well... nearly anything. The thought made him go cold. When had Harry ever become someone more to him than just a hero Gryffindor, with the weight of hundreds of expectations on his shoulders? 

Shit. 

In an effort to keep things light and humorous, Draco said the first thing that popped into his head: "Are you hitting on me, Potter?" 

The effect was magic. Harry yelped, staring at him in blatant horror, his eyes practically round in surprise. "Am I _what_?" 

I take that as a no, then," Draco said dryly. "Damn. Seems I'm losing my touch." 

"I am _not_ hitting on you, Malfoy! Honestly, where do you get these things?" Harry nearly shouted, remembering to keep his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Besides, I'm already ta—" He stopped suddenly, his cheeks reddening. 

"Taken?" Draco asked, thoroughly amused. "Yes, I'm sure Snape would be furious if I accidentally seduced you." 

Harry went deathly pale in moments. "How did you know?" He sounded absolutely horrified, like his worst nightmare had come true. 

Draco shrugged. "Call it repeated hunches and thinking over several things that didn't quite add up." When Harry still looked at him with wary fear, he sighed in exasperation. "Relax, Potter, I'm not going to turn you in or tell anyone. Though I'm still trying to get my head around the fact that it's _Snape_, of all people, you've fallen head over heels for, but we've far worse things to be worrying about right now instead of your love-life — or my own, for that matter." 

"Okay," Harry agreed, and turned to go back to sleep. Draco extinguished his wand and lay back down again. Then sighed, as Harry spoke again. 

"Why did Voldemort pretend to accept Severus back? Why did he allow him to keep on spying, when he already knew that Severus had betrayed him?" Harry voice was quiet and calm, but his words were anything but. 

Well. God, Harry had the ability to ask the worst questions. Draco blinked a few times, thinking, before he answered, "For his own reasons. He'd his own agenda. He knew Snape was Dumbledore's spy, but while Snape pretended to spy on Dumbledore as well he got information he needed. They were both using him, really, Dumbledore _and_ Voldemort. So it was Snape who lost out in the end, rather than either of them." Draco tried to keep the scorn from his voice, but failed. 

"Oh." Harry's tone when he said that one word could have meant anything. A pause. "I miss him, Malfoy. So much. I can't stop worrying that Voldemort's going to find him and _then_ make him pay for betraying him." Draco had to hand it to him: Harry kept his voice completely calm and it never once cracked, even though it was obvious this was tearing him apart. 

Draco wasn't as badly off; Voldemort had no reason to kill Blaise — yet. The familiar feeling of dread settled in Draco's stomach, but he still answered Harry. "Snape will be fine, Potter. He knows what he's doing and he knows how to take care of himself." 

"I hope so." Harry's voice didn't appear convinced. 

"That's not all that's on your mind, is it?" Draco asked, resisting the urge to cast Lumos again and see what the hell was on his face. 

Harry was silent for a long time. Draco was beginning to wonder if he'd finally fallen asleep, when he said, "I'm afraid that when this is all over" — Draco noticed he said 'when' rather than 'if' — "he won't want me anymore." 

Draco blinked once, twice, three times, deciding Harry had gone well and truly mad. He opened his mouth to snap at him, but instead said quietly, "Snape was an... acquaintance of my father's, before he went to Dumbledore's side, and I suppose I knew him of sorts. He looked after me when I was younger, whenever my parents would allow him to. He never had anyone, Potter, not even a fling. If he's gone as far with you as I think he has, then this is not a fling. He's in here for keeps, I think, so you better get used to having him around." He made to smile in an effort to reassure Harry, but decided against it; it wasn't like he could see him. 

Harry sighed, the sound rolling in the enclosed space. "I hope so, Malfoy." Then he was silent. Draco gave up trying to figure out how Harry could worry about destroying Voldemort and his relationship with Snape at the same time. Troubled, he closed his eyes. 

Seconds later, or so it seemed, he snapped awake as an explosion roared in his ears. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he lunged towards the window, just in time to see flames flicker in the distance. The acid smell of smoke already stung his nostrils, making him grimace. 

Draco turned just in time to see Harry stagger to his feet, his eyes scrunched up in pain. His hand was clapped against his forehead. "He's close," Harry ground out. "I can feel him." 

Draco opened his mouth to tell him to sit down and they'd think of a plan, but Harry was already at the door, disappearing into the darkness. Draco swore, bolting after him. Impulsive Gryffindor bastard. 

He had no idea where Harry had gone. Swearing even harder, Draco went to light his wand, but then stopped. If Voldemort was close by, then some of the Death Eaters undoubtedly were as well, and he was already on their hit-list. Lighting his wand was only making things easier for them. Besides, he'd reach a clearing soon enough, and there was enough light in the sky to make using a wand redundant. 

Taking a deep breath, Draco started walking further into the endless darkness, trying to keep his heartbeat from thundering in his ears, trying to keep his breathing calm and even, trying to keep himself from panicking. But as he kept on walking, it became harder and harder not to suspect he and Harry had just fallen straight into a trap. 

~*~

In the heart of the forest there was only darkness, thick, dense and unyielding. Draco moved cautiously, using his hearing and touch to help him along the way, since his eyesight was rather useless to him at the moment. Unless he used his wand, which he didn't really want to. He was in enough danger already, without drawing more unwanted attention on himself. 

She was there when he reached the edge of the clearing, silently standing in the centre. Light from the sky bathed her like a crimson spotlight, like a devil's glow, even if a devil was the last thing she looked like. 

He took a step forward into the clearing. 

"Pansy." 

She smiled weakly, a shadow of what her smile used to be. 

"Draco." 

Her eyes were bleak and hopeless; later, he would wonder if she had stood in that clearing patiently waiting to die. She probably had. He knew he should have felt sorrow upon realising that, but couldn't. Everything was happening too fast for him to keep up; all he could do was fling everything behind a solid barrier of apathy and hope for the best. 

She sighed. "I should probably put up a fight, but I can't be bothered." The bleakness in her eyes increased. "I'm so tired, Draco. I am, though I know you don't care." 

"I do," Draco lied. "But I can't forget what you did." 

A harsh bark of laughter escaped from her. "I know." 

She wasn't anything like the Pansy he'd once known. She'd been broken, by which side he didn't know, reduced to an empty shell that simply wanted to die. This wasn't the confrontation he'd been expecting. 

"Why did you do it?" he asked, taking another step towards her, and another, and another. She didn't move, instead waiting patiently, as patiently as someone waiting for an execution that had been planned ahead. 

She shrugged. "I was scared. A feeble excuse, I know, but the truth. I honestly didn't think we had a chance, or that the Dark Lord would spare us when he found out." 

"But he did," Draco snarled, glaring at her. His hand tightened on his wand. 

"I know _now_," Pansy snapped back, her eyes briefly flaring with an old spark. "But I didn't know back then, did I?" 

"That's still no excuse." Stubborn as ever, he was. "It wasn't only the others and me you put in danger — you put Snape in danger as well." 

She waved a hand vaguely. "The Dark Lord knew already. He would have been in danger as it was, even without me saying anything." 

"But he wasn't prepared. Thanks to you," Draco said flatly, watching her carefully. Everything about her had changed: he had no idea how she reacted to anything anymore. 

"No," Pansy said, meeting Draco's gaze squarely, "that was his fault. He should always have been prepared. He knew the truth would have come out at any time." 

There was nothing Draco could say to that. 

"What do you want?" he asked at last, grinding his teeth. "If you'd wanted to kill me, I most likely would have already been dead by now." 

"True. But you've got it the wrong way round, in fact." 

His gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing. 

"I want you to kill me." 

Draco blinked, convinced he'd heard wrong. Then his common sense kicked in and he _knew_ he hadn't heard wrong. "Why?" 

"I just decided it'd be an interesting thing for you to do. Why do you think?" she snarled in response, her patience finally snapping. "They'll kill me when they find me." He thought he knew who she was on about, but something in her expression made him reconsider. 

"What did he do to you?" Draco asked softly and Pansy froze, her expression carefully falling into a blank mask — but not before he saw panic briefly flash across her face. Then he was certain. 

"I tried to convince him to spare you, that you'd been under Snape's orders to betray us. The Dark Lord wasn't pleased." Draco fought to control his blind fury at Pansy carelessly trying to use Snape for her own means, but she was already continuing. "He told me not to be a fool, and never to lie to him again. But obviously he went farther than words." Pansy's bitter smile was testament to that. 

Any sympathy he had for her was gone. "You deserved it." 

Her eyes were like a lake: clear and empty. "If you say so." 

"I do." 

Draco moved away, disgusted and convinced she wasn't a threat. All she was trying to do was bait him, and that wasn't going to work. He wouldn't let it work. He was almost at the edge of the clearing, wondering how he was going to find Harry and kept him safe, when Pansy's next words stopped him in his tracks. 

"It's going to hurt, you know. The torture, I mean." 

He sighed, wearily turning around to face her again. "I know. I've already been tortured, in case you've forgotten. I suppose you weren't, since you spilled all?" 

Draco hadn't meant to use it as an insult; it was only a simple fact stated with extreme fatigue. But from the way Pansy jerked back as if she'd been slapped and her eyes widened with surprise and then fury, she'd obviously taken it as one. It seemed Voldemort had punished her anyway, still viewing her as a traitor for being on Draco's side and then betraying him. 

He wasn't sure when he'd started calling Voldemort by his true name, instead of the customary Dark Lord title, but Harry's deliberate use of his proper name had eventually rubbed off on him. Plus he'd gotten sick of constantly flinching anytime Harry had said it, reminding himself furiously that it was only a _name_, and couldn't hurt him. Only the person who owned it could, and probably dearly wanted to. But there was no point in constantly thinking about _that_. 

"If you thought that torture was bad," Pansy snapped, "then it'll be nothing compared to what he'll do to you when he captures you. You'll wish you were dead, Draco, but he won't leave you die, no, that'd be too easy. Too _quick_. He wants to make you _suffer_." 

Her words hadn't really the desired effect on him that she probably wanted them to have; Draco had already had them circling frantically around in his brain night after night. They hardly made any impact on him; he hardly spared them a moment's thought. Judging from her incensed expression, she realised this, and went for gold. 

"Blaise didn't come out of the last confrontation too well, did he?" she asked, and knew she'd made a mistake when Draco's face instantly went emotionless. "It was Harry Potter who saved him, wasn't it, not you, his blond knight in shining armour." 

"I'd shut up now, Pansy, if I were you," Draco said calmly. 

But she couldn't stop, not now, not when she'd started. 

"Harry Potter isn't going to fare out too well, either, is he?" she went on, crossing her arms and giving him a look that could have stripped paint. She was trembling; Draco had the suspicion that she was going to start crying any moment if she wasn't careful, which made him realise exactly how exhausted she was. She genuinely wanted him to kill her. 

"The Dark Lord is hardly going to give him a quick, clean death," she added. "Has to much against him, is going to want to make him pay for everything he's done to him over the years." 

Draco had had enough. He turned and started walking away again. 

"And let's say nothing about your mother," Pansy said, pulling her trump card. "I hear she's not coping so well, with everyone against her. Going a bit bonkers, isn't she? Last I heard St. Mungo's aren't too keen to have her if the war ends. She'll probably top herself, I imagine." 

Pansy had known Draco for years: she should have known better than to use the subject of his family against him. Hardly able to see with the red haze glimmering over his vision, Draco whirled around to face her, his mouth drawn into a snarl so tight his jaw ached. He could literally feel his blood _boil_. Unable to properly think, he whipped out his wand with only half an ideas of what he was really doing. The words bubbled up to his lips before he could stop them— 

Bright green light temporarily lit up the clearing. 

When it faded, Draco walked slowly over to where she lay in a crumpled heap, his body numb. He felt light-headed and seriously wondered if he was going to faint. The hand that held his wand trembled dangerously, and Draco slid it back into his robes before he dropped it. He kneeled down beside her and brushed locks of hair away from her face. 

Her eyes, clear and open, stared up at him. There was a smug smile on her lips. He'd fallen into her trap, letting her push him until his temper exploded and he'd acted without thinking. 

Bitch. 

He got slowly to his feet, brushing away dirt and stared down at her, clenching his hands into fists. His nails dug into his palms, almost drawing blood. 

Draco stared up at the sky and cursed Pansy to hell. 

~*~

When he reached the edge of the forest and stared at the expanse of flat land stretching before him, it began to rain. Of course it would rain. 

Draco sighed, before pulling the high collar of his cloak up further. Might as well keep his neck dry, at least. Keeping a tight leash on the part of him that couldn't stop thinking about Pansy, that wanted to whine that he was cold, tired and wanted this blasted war to be over, Draco took a step forward and left the safety of the trees. 

What had been a miserable existence then proceeded to turn into a nightmare. 

He was sheltering under a thin, bedraggled tree for a moment, when the swish of a cloak reached his ears. Draco pivoted before the thought even entered his mind, and found himself pointing his wand at his father. 

Lucius froze, holding his hands palm out in front of him. 'Hold on, I'm not going to hurt you. Calm down,' the action seemed to say. Draco didn't believe it for a moment. His father lived to torment people; even as his son, he was no exception to the rule. 

"You've improved." Lucius remarked after a moment. "You could never move that fast before." 

"Yes," Draco said, his wand never wavering, "I have." 

"About time." 

Draco wanted to laugh. What on earth had possessed him to even consider the possibility things between his father and him could ever change? This was open war. 

"No thanks to you," Draco murmured, and Lucius's eyes narrowed. Draco knew he was treading on very thin ice and had to walk carefully. One wrong move and he was dead. They were on opposite side of a war that was rapidly coming to a close. No sentiment would get in the way if things came to the worst. 

"I could say the same to you. My Lord doesn't trust me anymore. Thanks to you." The look on Lucius's face was positively filthy. 

Draco raised an eyebrow. "He never trusted you anyway." 

Lucius's face contorted, and Draco decided it was rather wise to keep his mouth shut when it came to retorts. 

"You've destroyed the family name," Lucius said in a vague attempt at a guilt-trip, one that was completely lost on his son. 

"Does it look as if I particularly care?" Draco asked, narrowing his eyes. 

"Before, you would have," Lucius whispered, taking a step forward. 

Draco never lowered his wand. "That was before. This is now." 

Lucius looked away for a moment. "Yes. Yes, it is." 

Draco never had any excuse for what happened next. The only thing he could think of was that he had never expected his father to actually _do_ something. So his guard was less than satisfactory. But it still happened. 

He blinked, and then Lucius was lunging towards him, his face a mask of rage, and his wand in hands that were twisted into claws. Draco threw himself backwards, heart hammering. The rest of him, however, was numb, and his mind was thinking with extreme clarity. _Forget the wand,_ he thought. _I won't get it up in time. Find something._ Find something! 

His father was getting closer; everything was moving as if in slow motion. Draco fell to one knee, reaching towards his boot. His hand found the smooth hilt and he whipped it out, secured his grip and hoped it wouldn't shake. 

Green light rushed towards him and Draco pushed himself up, threw himself to the side and kept going. For a moment Lucius's eyes met his, filled with surprise, before Draco hit him. 

The impact with the ground stunned him, and he half-lay on his father, trying to remember how to breathe. Draco pushed himself up and rolled off Lucius, before he tried to kill him. The hilt wouldn't come with him. 

Draco looked down and realised his knife was buried in his father's chest. 

_Oh, God._

He could only look at it in horrified fascination, trying to recall what he had done, what had happened. It came back to him only in flashes and brief snatches of memory. 

Then sound returned and everything fell apart. 

Lucius wasn't screaming. Malfoys never screamed. Instead he just lay there, blood spreading in a dark pool, breathing hard. His eyes, hard as flint, locked onto Draco's and narrowed. 

They were the image of each other, young and old, both the same yet completely different. His father, bound by blood and soul to a Dark Lord and trapped by the decisions he had made long ago. Himself, bound by the things he had seen and the decisions he had consequently made, and trapped in the dangerous web of war. They were alike but still different, mainly because of the choices they had made. 

Draco had chosen Snape and the side of good, while Lucius had remained with Voldemort. But as he stared down at his dying father, Draco couldn't help but think that black and white looked awfully like grey right then. Besides, it was looking extremely likely that he'd end up dead as well, anyway. 

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered, slowly rising to his feet. He stared down at his twitching father, whose once immaculate appearance was being marred by the expanding crimson stain. _He never liked red,_ Draco thought vaguely. _Said it reminded him too much of Gryffindors._

"I'm not sorry that I did it," he clarified, "because you deserve to die just as much as any of the others. But I am sorry that it happened like this." He couldn't say why, exactly, since his common sense was screaming at him that it was a good thing his father was dying, but the part of Draco that was still a Malfoy regretted that it had happened like this. It hadn't been... honourable. Well, really, it had been an act of desperation on the spur of the moment, but that was beside the point. 

Lucius didn't say anything, merely stared at him. Blood was beginning to bubble from his mouth as he coughed. The knife was restricting his breathing, Draco realised, unable to understand that his father was _dying_, so his breathing soon wouldn't matter. Without thinking, he reached down to pull out the knife, and jumped as Lucius _hissed_ at him. But the knife came with him. Lucius choked and scrabbled for a moment, eyes wild. 

_Oh, Lord..._ was all Draco could think. _Oh, Lord, what have I done?_

Then Lucius jerked once, twice, three times, his laboured breathing sounding disgustingly wet, before all the air went out of him in a disturbing _whoosh_. His eyes locked on to Draco as he mouthed three words. 

_Go to hell._

His eyes turned a dark grey and he went motionless, his face slack. He stared upwards at the endless, unforgiving sky. 

Draco smiled grimly. "See you there." 

Then it hit him that his father was _dead_ and never coming back. That he was gone and Draco had killed him. _I killed him,_ Draco thought, stunned. _I killed him. Me._

After a moment's consideration, he knelt and closed his father's eyes with trembling fingers. He rose to his feet unsteadily and glanced down at the bloodstained knife in his left hand. He knelt down again, and after a quick search found a dirty handkerchief in his father's robes. Draco rose, turned and used it to clean the knife as he walked. 

He went ten steps before his knees gave out and he fell, vomiting hard. As he retched, tears slid down his face, dripping to the ground. 

~*~

It was the explosion of blue light in the sky and a distant scream that jerked him out of his trance, bringing him back to reality with an unpleasant shock. 

_Oh, God,_ he thought, staggering to his feet. _Harry._

He hardly remembered running, but his legs must have started moving, because all of a sudden he was racing towards the fading blue light, an ugly streak against the crimson sky. His heart pounded in his chest — _thump, thump, thump_ — and it was hard to breathe, but he knew better than to slow down. This was it, the turning point everyone had been waiting for since the war started. And he'd be damned if it turned for Voldemort's benefit. 

They were fighting a few miles west of where he and Lucius had been, on a small hill overrun with coloured magic and a horrible dark mist that reached towards the burning sky overhead. Draco's legs screamed as he started running upwards, but he ignored the pain, instead using it to spur him further upwards. _Hurry, hurry, hurry!_

He had only a vague idea of what he was doing: it seemed like he was in a trance and it was only his instincts guiding him to where Voldemort and Harry were. The rest of him was numb, screaming continuously at him that he'd killed Pansy and Lucius, two people he'd once known and sought approval from _and he'd killed them_. He didn't allow that part to gain control, however; he knew if he did then he'd fall to the ground and start screaming and wouldn't be able to stop. He wouldn't — couldn't — allow that to happen, not now. 

Draco had no plan. He had no idea what to do when he reached them. All he knew, all that mattered anymore, was that Voldemort had to die and Harry had to stay alive. That was all that it meant by now. One had to die and the other had to stay alive. It wasn't a matter of Good and Evil anymore; it was just survival between two people who'd hated each other for years. 

And where did he fit in? 

He was there to ensure the right person died and the right person stayed alive. 

That was all. 

It wasn't good when he reached the top of the hill; his eyes told him that much. Voldemort was slowly advancing towards a fallen, trembling Harry, obviously pushed to his limits. He had to do something, anything, once it distracted Voldemort. 

Draco pointed with his wand and shouted something. Later, he still wouldn't know what he actually said, but it didn't really matter by then. But it worked in that Voldemort took his eyes off Harry. He said something, perhaps along the lines of, "You." Then he started walking towards him, his eyes burning and furious. Draco stuffed his wand into his belt and hoped he wasn't going to die. 

He did the one thing Voldemort didn't expect — he attacked physically. Which meant he literally threw himself at the Dark Lord. They fell in a tangle of limbs and shouts, Draco inwardly screaming at the thought of having to touch that thing, his silent screams succumbing to wails of complete gibberish. One thing still came out properly, however, a painfully clear plea. 

_Come on, Harry, please come on, hurry, please, please, please..._

He didn't know what Voldemort actually did, but blinding pain ripped down his right leg, white hot and terrible. Draco did the one thing he swore he'd never do before Voldemort and screamed, the sound surprised and horrified all at once. Voldemort threw him off, fury radiating from him in scalding waves, and Draco slammed a palm against his right thigh as he hit the ground, trying to figure out what Voldemort had done to him. 

The Dark Lord advanced slowly, his face a terrifying mask of rage, his eyes burning like hell as he came closer, Draco's death intent in his gaze. Draco knew at that moment he was going to die, as he lay there, twitching and shivering in pain and fear. 

Then green light burst through the air and crashed into Voldemort from behind. His eyes widened for a moment as he fell to his knees, green light forming an unholy halo around him. His mouth opened in faint surprise, before he collapsed fully onto the ground and the green consumed him. 

After that Draco knew no more, as the darkness and pain consumed _him_ until he couldn't see or feel anything at all. 

~*~

The stars were out the night they burned her. 

Draco could feel the eyes upon him as he stood on the top steps of the platform, eyes which he deliberately ignored. He knew what they whispered among themselves: Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater. Draco Malfoy, whose own mother was a raving lunatic. Draco Malfoy... who killed his own father. 

They feared him. 

He didn't give a damn about any of them. But... 

Draco turned to face them for a moment and met their eyes defiantly, a bitter, amused smile flickering on his lips. He let them take whatever they wanted from his expression, before he turned to face the platform again. 

The Ministry had stolen the idea from the way Muggles had treated suspected witches. They'd decided that they'd treat Voldemort's followers with the same ignorance Muggles had treated their 'witches'. It was a terrible punishment, the final insult. Draco suspected Voldemort's followers didn't particularly care; they simply wanted it over with. 

He watched the Executioners wait patiently, their arms folded as they stood nearby. The torch-light spilled over their blood-red robes, making it seem like they were clothed in fire. Their faces were porcelain, blank and lifeless. Draco knew they would do their job and not care about the consequences. But he wondered if that would keep the nightmares at bay. 

He folded his arms, pressing them against his body, trying not to think about what was going to happen. He'd be an orphan soon, not that it would matter. That word only mattered when one was a child; it had no meaning when one was almost eighteen. 

A flurry of whispers drew Draco out of his worthless musings. He looked up, just as his mother was led towards the platform... and the stake. If Draco hadn't already know what she would look like, he never would have recognised her. 

Narcissa Malfoy had once been the epitome of feminine perfection. Her skin had been creamy-pale; her hair pale and glossy; her eyes cool, but intelligent. Her dresses had always been expertly tailored in the current season's designs and colours. Now... now, she had fallen hard. 

Her hair was a tangled mess; her skin pallid and smudged. Her clothes were ripped and soiled, looking the exact opposite of what they had been when bought. And her eyes... her eyes... 

Her eyes were whirling maelstroms of rage, pain and madness. 

Draco found she was the one person whose gaze he couldn't hold for long. 

But he forced himself to look at her when she stopped before him. Draco knew they did this on purpose. He clenched his hands into fists, unwilling for them to see how angry they were making him feel. They knew how much it would hurt to see his mother like this... and they did it anyway. 

Her eyes met his, devoid of anything resembling recognition. 

_Oh, God,_ Draco thought, staring at her. _Oh, God, this is really happening._ He found he was unable to say anything, even when she was led up the steps and away from him. 

Swallowing hard, he turned and walked down the steps again, stopping at the front of the crowd. Those standing nearest to him moved away, but he hardly noticed. All he could do was stare at his mother as she was tied to the stake. 

This was wrong. Of course it was. His mother had never been loyal to Voldemort. She had never approved of his methods and never done anything in his name, because he had never asked her to. The only person Narcissa had been loyal to was Lucius, and because of that she was now going to die. 

Draco ignored the thoughts in his head that suggested he stand up for her, that he could somehow persuade them all to let her free. He couldn't, least of all because actions such as those would only have him facing the stake as well... and he wasn't willing to go that far for his mother. 

He wasn't sure what caused her to lose her mind; he never met her at all during the war, and she was already mad when it ended. St Mungo's wouldn't take her, claiming that they had too many to currently care for. Everyone knew it was really because of who she was. 

Draco kept her at Malfoy Manor for as long as he could, but the Ministry soon came to rectify that. He fought at first, when he realised what his mother's fate would be, but quickly realised it was futile. The Ministry wanted payment and it was Narcissa they had chosen. "Blood for blood," they told him. Draco sincerely wished it was theirs. 

They began piling wood around her. hey placed dangerously flammable material underneath, so the flames would easily catch. Then the Executions surrounded the stake and pointed their wands at the wood. 

Draco closed his eyes, but heard the spell anyway. 

When he opened them, the flames were crackling and already the wood was catching fire. _They must have altered it, somehow,_ he realised. _That's the only way it could have caught fire so fast._ Before he could help himself, he added, _At least it'll be faster than they wanted._

It didn't make him feel any better. It didn't make seeing his mother being burnt alive any easier. But he watched it, kept his eyes on her face. He owed her that much. He tried not to see the flickering panic being to appear in her otherwise blank eyes. Tried not to see that the flames were climbing higher. 

Then the screaming started. 

At first, it was just whimpers of fear and sobs. Then they got stronger and longer. Then it became one continuous note. Draco's nerve broke and he closed his eyes. He could feel the heat from the flames pressing against him, and it was hard to ignore the irrational reaction that the fire was going to get him, too... 

When his mother's voice began to crack, Draco gave up and ran, elbowing through the crowd. He imagined he could hear their laughter follow him as he ran, mingling with the roar of the flames and the screaming. 

His own right leg was screaming by the time he stopped, a painful reminder that it would never be fully back to normal. He'd always have a limp, and it would always be in pain. He leaned against a tree and gently massaged it, gritting his teeth at the waves of hot agony that ripped through him. At least the pain was something he could concentrate on, something he could use to ignore what had just happened. 

Even only thinking about it brought it all back. Draco winced, closing his eyes to forget the images, but it was useless. To make matters even worse, his leg chose that moment to give out and he fell to his knees, one hand braced against the tree trunk. He shivered, and knew it had nothing to do with the cold. 

But he didn't cry, probably because there was no reason to. He had no more tears left. 

A hand on his shoulder made him freeze, but he relaxed when he recognised who it was. Blaise knelt beside him, and for a while neither of them said anything. 

Then, without a word, Blaise pulled Draco close and wrapped his arms around him. Draco clung to him, trying not to feel like what was left of his ruined life was now collapsing around him. 

But he didn't cry. 

~*~

Draco made sure to attend every funeral of every Death Eater. He'd thought the occasion would be attended by no one, but he was surprised. 

Hundreds came, possibly out of vindictiveness and to give the final insult. They watched with pale, angry faces, the flames reflected maliciously in their eyes. They were positively overjoyed when they heard the screams. 

Draco always found it ironic how they could never scream during Voldemort's torture, but while being burned alive they unleashed every ounce of fear they possessed. 

It was strange, at first, to see men and women he'd known for most of his life being bound and surrounded by wood, people he'd once considered friends of his father. And it was indescribable to see them burn. 

He stood at the front and was surprised to realise he was the one they always watched. As the flames rose higher, rose to a deafening roar, their eyes were locked on his, but were never filled with anger. They were just... empty. Hollow. 

Draco kept on watching, even when the screams started. Especially when the screaming started, possibly acting out of a perverse sense of duty, and perhaps even respect, though he never told anyone that. He had no desire to be tied to the stake. 

Towards the end, he found he didn't throw up anymore. He supposed this was a good thing. Maybe. Maybe not. 

~*~

Draco had stared up at the familiar walls, turrets and towers of Hogwarts, and hated it with a loathing that had been constantly building up inside him, lately. 

Another year of being trapped in this place. Another year of being forced to be polite to people he disliked. Another year of being surrounded by people who hated him. Joy. All because Dumbledore had decided that all Seventh Years caught in the war had to return to actually do their N.E.W.T.s. 

Being in Slytherin now meant instant ostracism by the other three Houses, no matter who you were. Just wearing the Serpent was enough. It had come to the stage where Draco was ignored by Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, but Gryffindors made his life a misery. From what he'd heard, Snape was waging war against Dumbledore over it. But Draco could understand their motives, sort of. They needed someone to blame. They chose him. 

He was able to control his temper, until Weasley threw an insult against the one thing that would hurt: his family. 

"Well, Malfoy, you've certainly lived up to you family name. Well done. But killing your own father! That was low, even for you." Weasley made tutting sounds, his eyes gleaming malevolently. 

Draco met his gaze, his face calm, and felt nothing but blind rage. His face still coolly serene, he threw himself at the redhead. 

He did a far better job than he would have done before the war, getting in punches and attacks beyond his ability once. Weasley certainly looked the worse for wear when Draco was eventually dragged off him. 

"_Malfoy_," an exasperated voice said. 

Draco looked up to find Harry holding him back, amused frustration lurking in his eyes. 

"Potter," he croaked. "Wonderful. Absolutely spiffy, in fact." 

Harry glared at him. "Shut up." 

Draco smiled and ignored him. "Your friend looks handsome, doesn't he?" He gestured at Weasley, who was struggling to his feet. He looked equally furious and astonished; Harry had gone to Malfoy first. True, that had been to drag him off before he did any permanent damage, but Harry never went to Draco first. Never... until now. 

"Yes," Harry replied gravely, "he does." 

Weasley's jaw dropped, and he winced as his swollen lip split. Granger came forward and took his arm, intending to take him to the Hospital Wing. 

"Hey," Harry asked, "are you coming to the celebrations?" 

Ah, yes, Draco thought, the mighty celebrations. A feast the likes of which Hogwarts had never seen. Everyone was coming, not just the students. The first official celebration of the end of the war and the end of Voldemort. 

They _should_ go. They had as much right there as anyone else. 

"They're not going," Weasley said. Silence fell as both Harry and Draco whipped around to face him. 

"What?" Harry asked, his eyes wide. "What do you mean?" 

"They're not allowed come," Weasley explained. He shook off Granger's hand, wiped the blood from his mouth with his sleeve, squared his shoulders and looked them both in the eye. Draco had to admit he had courage... grudgingly. 

"And why not?" a new voice asked quietly. Blaise came up to stand beside them, his eyes flashing. He hadn't been sure what to make of Draco and Harry's strange friendship when the war had ended, but had soon come to accept the Gryffindor. Draco dreaded some of the things about him they discussed. 

Weasley pressed his lips tightly. "That's what Dumbledore said. Don't blame _me_, _Slytherin_." 

Dumbledore. Draco felt his stomach drop. Him again. Draco had never quite felt the headmaster's attitude towards him and his Slytherins to be entirely accepting. There had always been something... cold in his eyes whenever he'd looked at them. 

Draco glanced at Harry, and was shocked to see his hands were balled into fists and he was shaking, his body taunt with tension. 

"Did he now?" Harry asked tightly. 

Weasley nodded. 

Without another word, Harry swept off, his robes actually billowing behind him. For a moment he looked scarily like Snape. Draco and Weasley were left staring at each other in anger and barely-contained astonishment. 

_You took my best friend from me,_ Weasley's accusing stare seemed to say. Draco said nothing, merely continued to watch as Granger took him away to the Hospital Wing, and the crowd dispersed. 

Then he and Blaise went to return to the dungeons. When Blaise's hand found his, Draco held on tightly. 

A commendable thank you, indeed. 

~*~

Harry had never seen the Great Hall this alive before. Sound practically bounced off the walls as people laughed and talked. All normal, all happy. Hah. He could hear the grieving edge in their voices, the nervousness that hinted at the continuous nightmares. 

Banners of red, blue and gold shone resplendent on the walls, a riot of colour. But he found himself missing the green more than he would have imagined he could. It just didn't feel the same. 

Having people other than students present was strange as well. Ministry officials, past Hogwarts students who had risen to important positions in their respective workplaces, and various other significant people from society mingled freely with the students. Entire families were present... almost. He swore Celestina Warbeck and the Weird Sisters had passed by, and Bill and the twins were talking to Ron and Ginny further up the table. Everyone looked so bloody fake happy he wanted to let loose a few choices hexes. 

And it wasn't even funny how many people kept coming up to him. Why wouldn't they leave him alone? He'd had a few close shaves that involved nearly dumping things over their heads. Thankfully, Dumbledore had said a few discreet comments and people had given him a wide breath from then on. Thank God. 

Several tables had been joined to the Teachers' table for all the 'important' people, while everyone else kept to the lesser tables. They'd known better than to ask Harry to sit there. He found it amusing that everyone kept to their own tables, even the past students... and it was just a little bit scary. When would these divisions end? 

But the table at the other side of the Great Hall was empty, the table with green and silver. It was no surprise that it was avoided by all. It was also no surprise that a single Slytherin, young or old wasn't present — with the exception of Severus. Harry could see him at one end of the Top tables, isolated and furious, giving Dumbledore dark looks every so often. Harry still couldn't believe Dumbledore had forbidden the Slytherins from attending. 

It also occurred to him that he was in a foul mood and shouldn't really be celebrating, but he had no choice: Harry Potter, killer of Voldemort and hero of the war, had to be present. 

"Harry!" Hermione's voice broke through his miserable thoughts. 

He looked up at her in surprise. "Mm?" 

"Why aren't you eating?" she asked quietly, looking concerned. She also checked to make sure no one else was listening. She needn't have bothered: everyone had been avoiding him all night. Snape really was becoming a bad influence on him. Of everyone, Hermione had been the only one after him to eat, drink, sleep, and _live_. Of course this was hardly surprising: Hermione was the mothering one in their group. 

Harry stared down at his plate and felt sick. "I can't face it," he muttered, closing his eyes. 

"Harry, you have to eat," she said firmly, sitting down in the empty seat beside him. Grabbing his plate, she filled it with light foods that he, hopefully, wouldn't throw up. 

Taking a look at the no-nonsense expression on her face, Harry sighed and picked up his fork. 

"This is nice, isn't it?" Hermione asked, sipping her drink as she looked around. 

Harry shrugged. "I suppose. I miss the green, personally." 

"Harry..." 

"It's not fair, Hermione, and you know it," Harry snapped, clutching his goblet so tightly his knuckles turned white. "What the hell is going through their heads?" 

"I don't know," she admitted, "I really don't know. But Dumbledore made this decision, Harry, and it must have been for a very good reason. You know he doesn't make thoughtless decisions." 

"Doesn't he?" Harry asked flatly, meeting her gaze. 

She stared at him with her mouth hanging open. 

A loud laugh made them both look further up the table. Something the twins had said must have been extremely funny, for Bill, Ron and Ginny were laughing, Ron the hardest of all. 

"They don't seem to be mourning for Charlie anymore," Harry hissed, narrowing his eyes at the scene. 

Hermione bit her lip. Obviously Harry hadn't got over a furious row he'd had with the Weasleys months before, though he'd said he had. They'd accused Harry of being a selfish bastard wrapped up in being the hero of the war, all because he hadn't outwardly shown signs of grief over Charlie. 

It had been Hermione who'd sorted it out, explaining quietly and calmly to the Weasleys that Harry had seen so much violence and death around him that he'd grown numb. He couldn't show grief anymore because his mind was still subconsciously in war mode. 

What she hadn't told them was that Charlie was only another body in Harry's mind. What was one more death to him? 

Her explanation had worked, and the Weasleys had subsequently apologised for their harsh words. Harry had smiled and graciously accepted the apology. All had been forgiven, but Hermione had always wondered. Now she knew that the grudge still ran deep, in Harry's mind at least. 

The row had killed any chance of romance between her and Ron, as well as destroying Harry and Ron's already strained friendship. For one thing, all of the Weasleys had stayed away from Harry tonight. 

"Oh, Harry," she whispered sadly, unable to think of anything better to say. He shrugged. 

At that moment, Ron happened to look their way. His expression turned cool, before he looked away. Harry's back visibly stiffened, but his face stayed carefully blank. It was this constant expression of indifference that drove Ron mad, Hermione knew, as she fought the urge to wring her hands. 

Things between Harry and Ron had already been difficult, but the final breaking point had been earlier today, when Ron had taunted Draco about his family, a topic he should have known better than to touch. His insulting had gone too far, but that hadn't been surprising, considering the animosity between the two. But the fact that Harry had gone to Draco first, instead of Ron, had been surprising, and proof that the friendship between Ron and Harry was well and truly over. The bitter irony was that Ron had earlier decided to try and patch things up between them. 

When she stopped musing and returned to the present, she realised Harry was glaring at Dumbledore with open hatred on his face. The expression was almost frightening. 

"Why is he being so unfair? He has no _right_ to choose who can attend or not." Harry looked near despair. "If Draco hadn't been there, I wouldn't even be alive! There wouldn't _be_ any celebrations!" 

"Harry!" Hermione cried in alarm. He looked so hopeless, so pained and so _furious_ all at the same time that she was beginning to feel quite worried. This wasn't like him... but then, he wasn't the old Harry anymore. 

She decided not to say anything about the fact that Harry had called Draco by his first name. She didn't want to know if it had been intentional or not. 

He turned to face her, opened his mouth — but the sound of the doors booming open drowned out his words. 

Silence fell, as everyone looked towards the entrance to the hall. 

Harry's gaze found the person standing in the doorway, but his eyes refused to recognise him. It couldn't be... but it was. He made to stand up, his mouth still open, but Hermione grabbed his wrist and forced him to stay sitting. Everyone was definitely staring now. 

Draco Malfoy stood framed in the doorway, his grey eyes glinting dangerously. 

~*~

Draco stood in the doorway, surveying all of the stunned faces with an almost detached air. He planted his hands on his hips, the ghost of a smile flickering over his lips. 

"Draco!" Blaise hissed, vague panic tingeing his voice. Clearly, disobeying Dumbledore's direct orders didn't sit well with him, even when the orders were distinctly unfair. Dumbledore was just as much of a hero from the war as Harry was — it wasn't wise to go directly against him and risk even further backlash against them than they'd already received. 

"Trust me," Draco said, keeping his eyes on the tables and hardly moving his lips. 

Behind him, Blaise sighed, but otherwise stayed silent. No one else said a word. 

Draco waited, still watching them all, before taking a step into the Great Hall. His footsteps echoed as he walked between the tables, towards the ones where Dumbledore and the others sat. He stopped a few feet away, silently staring up at them. Snape watched him, his gaze sharp. 

"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said quietly, peering down at him, his half-moon glasses glinting in the candlelight. 

"Headmaster," Draco replied coolly, his expression carefully blank. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" the Minister of Magic demanded, rising to his feet, a pale man with thinning brown hair. Draco simply looked at him, and the man slowly sat down again, his face ashen. 

"We have as much right to be here as anyone else," Draco snapped, his voice resounding in the silence. "We helped just as much in the war: we played our part well. We remained loyal... and this is our payment." 

Anger rippled through the crowd; several people frowned. Blaise and the other Slytherins visibly stiffened. 

"Watch your mouth, _Slytherin_!" someone called. Draco didn't recognise the voice, but whirled around to face the crowd. He immediately noticed several missing people that had been there before. Slytherin hadn't been the only one to breed Death Eaters, a fact many deliberately chose to overlook. 

"Calling me a Slytherin is not an insult," Draco announced. "It never was, though several of you decided it made a perfect one. In these tables" — he gestured at the lesser tables behind him — "there were once many people who aren't here now, and they didn't die on _our_ side. Slytherin wasn't the only House to create Death Eaters — maybe it's time you all remembered that." He waited. 

It was easy to see several jaws drop. It was also very satisfactory. Draco struggled not to allow his lips to twitch. He froze when Blaise hesitantly moved to stand beside him, offering silent support, a fierce determination etched on his thin face. 

"He's right, you know," a familiar voice said quietly. Blaise's eyes widened, as ice settled in Draco's stomach. Harry Potter stood up, ignoring Granger's desperate attempts to keep him down. His eyes were grim, his lips pressed to a thin line, his hands clenched into fists. 

"Harry?" Dumbledore looked faintly surprised. Draco felt incredibly smug. Dumbledore didn't know his hero as well as he imagined he did. It seemed to be a recent occurrence. 

"Malfoy's right," Harry repeated. "There's no point using 'Slytherin' or 'Gryffindor' as insults: they don't work anymore. And it's not like we'll still be using them when we leave school, is it?" He looked around the mute hall, his eyes hard. Many people had to look away. 

Draco crossed his arms and just watched. This was turning out to be rather interesting. 

"Tonight we're celebrating Voldemort's downfall and the end of the war," Harry continued, leaving his own table to approach the Top tables. "Everyone is overjoyed and making plans for life to be better, our futures to be brighter. _Hypocrites, all of you!_ We haven't moved on an inch. Voldemort must be killing himself for the third time laughing at us." 

A pin dropping could have been heard in the complete stillness that followed. 

"Of us all, Malfoy and his Slytherins were the bravest, most courageous than me, than Dumbledore, than anyone. They had the least to gain by supporting us. In fact, all they had to gain was hell. That was all they got when Voldemort realised whose side they were really on. None of you saw what he did to some of them — but I did. Some of them barely survived the torture, but they still joined the war _on our side_." Harry, his face pale and grim, made his way slowly and deliberately towards Draco and Dumbledore. 

There were some distinctly uncomfortable faces in the crowd, Draco noticed, watching them. Part of him felt satisfied that they were getting a taste of their own medicine. The rest of him wondered how far Harry had been pushed that he was actually supporting him. 

"In fact," Harry went on, stopping so that he was on the other side of Draco, "if it wasn't for Malfoy, I wouldn't even be alive now. Draco distracted Voldemort, knowing how dangerous it was, knowing that he'd probably die. But he still did it, giving me the chance to destroy Voldemort once and for all." 

The fury in Harry's eyes blazed. Draco found he could hardly speak, most likely because he felt like his insides had frozen solid. Harry had just called him by his first name, something both of them had agreed not to do... but things had changed. The least he could do was return the favour. Eventually. 

"Of all of us here, it was the Slytherins who deserved to come the most. But you all kept them out, for no good reason only your damn selfishness and your pride. You all say things will change and be better, but what do you call this? None of you are able to look beyond the fact that there are Slytherins who don't go by the norm, who don't want to do what everyone else does, because it makes things harder. You can't accept things aren't just black and white anymore." Harry looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel at any moment. Draco wondered how on earth he was going to get him to calm down after this. 

Harry was slightly exaggerating, but none of the Slytherins stopped him: they weren't that stupid. Whatever worked, and this was definitely working. So what if it wasn't completely true? 

"I have to say, this was wonderful thanks for what they did. Absolutely wonderful," Harry said bitterly. "Then think about this: if Draco hadn't distracted Voldemort in time, what would you all be celebrating now?" Shaking his head, he turned and started walking towards the Slytherin table. After a moment, Blaise followed him, the other Slytherins trailing behind them. 

Draco didn't say anything for several moments, before flinging out his trump card. Drawing himself to his full height, he looked around, and then said quietly, "In the past most of you have all accused us of being prejudiced and unable to look past appearances. So what do you call what you're doing to us, now? I think hypocrites was a rather apt description, don't you?" Without another word, he turned and started walking to his own table. Sound exploded behind him, and he allowed himself a small smile. 

Harry was sitting down and looked dangerously near hysterics. Blaise gave him a critical look and poured him a brandy, silently pushing the glass towards him. Harry gripped it with trembling hands. Food, glasses and plates were appearing along the table and everyone was tucking in eagerly. 

Draco eased himself into his seat with gritted teeth; his leg was started to throb, unused to so much standing. He'd have to be careful with how much strain he put it under, unless he planned on never walking again. He watched Harry for a moment, before snorting. "Good show, Potter." Harry gave him a glare that was rather impressive. Blaise sighed, before reaching for the food, letting them to it. 

"You should join Slytherin, you know," Draco continued, ignoring the obvious fact that Harry looked seriously close to causing him severe damage. "You could be the example of What Never To Do In Public. You'd be wonderful at it." 

"Malfoy..." Harry growled. 

"I'd invite you back to the dormitory, but that's not possible under the circumstances." When Harry's eyes narrowed, Draco sighed. "Look at the Top tables, Potter. I think someone intends to have you all to themselves for the night." 

Startled, Harry looked. Snape sat there, a glass of wine in his hands. The look in his eyes was one of fierce pride. Draco allowed himself the illusion that it was for both of them, and not just Harry. 

He rolled his eyes at Harry's dumbfounded look. "Told you it'd work out, idiot." 

"Go to hell, Draco," Harry said absently, his eyes glued on Snape. Draco silently betted the dopey smile would come in about fifteen seconds. 

"Not without dragging you with me," was the cheerful reply. "We'll bring Blaise too, and make it a party. Satan won't know what hit him. What do you say, Blaise?" 

Blaise gave him a distinctly-unimpressed look, with a hint of a smile, before turning back to Hermione, who'd rushed over, no doubt to see if Harry was all right. Draco smiled. 

"Potatoes, Harry?" he asked, holding out the bowl to him. Harry wrenched his eyes away from Snape, looking annoyed, and took the bowl from him roughly. "Manners... Harry." 

Harry looked up, his eyes wide, before a grin spread over his lips. Draco felt unease twist in his stomach. 

Harry calmly dumped a ladle-full of potatoes on Draco's head. 

Silence fell. Hermione looked horrified. Blaise looked like he was going to go into convulsions. 

"Thank you, Draco," Harry said sweetly. 

Draco stared at him for one long moment. Then he burst out laughing. 

**— End —**


End file.
